


Stars Could Be Brighter

by lilacs (museicalitea)



Category: Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats - T. S. Eliot
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museicalitea/pseuds/lilacs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One tribe has good intentions, yet they are overshadowed in a wave of bad deeds. Their decimation at the hands of a common enemy finds the two survivors seeking shelter with the Jellicles, but truths can only be withheld for so long, and pasts can only be avoided for as long as they fail to catch up with you. And sometimes it is better not to seek forgiveness where none can be had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars Could Be Brighter

The night is dark. The stars are veiled, and the moon is gone from the sky. The city is quiet for the first time that night, and it is a relief to most within. Most, for the quiet presses upon him, and him alone.

For he is alone.

He is lying on the ground, and it is very cold. Or perhaps he is cold; he stopped differentiating between the two a long time ago. He wonders if it is dawn yet. Perhaps it is, but that does not matter to him now. Nothing matters anymore, and it is strange to him, feeling so empty. He has not felt empty for a long time.

He wonders if his loss of feeling is because of the cold, stiff paw he has clasped with his own. The warmth drained out of it barely an hour ago, and with it went his hope. There is naught left now but cold, and the quiet, and the knowledge that he is alone.

Because he knows that he cannot be anything other than alone right now. He can hear nothing but silence, he can smell nothing but blood and death. He knows that others have died this night. He cannot help but wonder if all of them are dead.

He cannot help but pray that he will die soon, too.

A breeze brushes over him, and the heavy, metallic tang of blood washes through his nostrils as he breathes in. He is almost too far gone for it to be anything more than a fleeting thought, but there is the hint of a new scent. There is almost something breaking the silence.

But he is gone before it can be certain, and he welcomes the oblivion.

* * *

He never thought he would meet his end this way, helpless at the hands of his enemy. He tries to remind himself that he will have died in battle, and that there is nothing more honourable.

But they have lost. He has lost. He has lost them all, and he will be joining them soon. And he cannot even fight to retain his honour, for they will kill him as soon as he tries.

He is ashamed of himself. He knows that he should not have led them all to their deaths in this way. They were all so very loyal to him, always. The bravest, truest, best band of cats he could have ever have had the fortune to meet in his life. And he has brought about their end.

A lesser cat would despair, would fall on his knees and beg for mercy. But he is not a lesser cat, and he cares nothing for mercy. He will die anyway, and he does not deserve mercy in his execution.

But he can face them with a proud face, and his head held high, because he will be _damned_ if he is going to die like a coward, after the sacrifices of all his men. He will be _damned_ if these enemies of his can get the pleasure of seeing him bow under them. Seeing him break, as though he is weak.

He smiles, and shouts a cry of rebellion as they descend on him, the one thing he can give his brothers in arms – he too will go down fighting.

And though they have lost, he feels victorious as the world blurs and dims, as he feels the blood running down his throat and he falls back to hit the ground hard.

Their pride is not lost. There can be no worthier final thought.

* * *

He sits in the darkness and is very quiet, just like he has always been told. Stay here. Wait for us to come and get you. Do not come out again unless it is light if we do not come. We _will_ come back for you.

He does not think they will come back this time, though.

He heard when the fighting stopped, and had been relieved. But he knows that hours have passed now, and it is still dark, and no one has come to get him. No one has come to find him. He tries not to let himself think that no one _will_ come for him now. Because they have to. They must.

They _promised_.

He feels himself shaking, though whether from the cold or the tears coursing down his cheeks, he does not know. He is alone, and he feels alone in a way that has never been present for him before tonight. He does not want to believe that any of them are dead, even though he knows in his heart of hearts that nothing else would stop them from coming to him.

And with this knowledge heavy in his heart, he decides to leave his sanctuary. He has heard little noise from outside since the end of the fighting – just a lone set of footsteps half an hour previous, and he knows he can hide if they are a threat.

He slips through the streets swift and quick as a shadow, following traces of achingly familiar scents, which intermingle with the choking fumes of blood. They are growing stronger the closer he gets, and he feels sick. He is losing his childish hopes fast, but he has to see it. He can still cling onto that – that nothing bad can be real unless he is given absolute, undeniable proof.

Seeing his brother staring blankly at the lightening sky, thrown atop a pile of dead friends and drenched in blood is more proof than he could have ever wished for.

He staggers away into the shadows, not trusting himself not to yell and scream. He tries to, but no sound comes out. He tries to cry, but all his tears are spent. He can only breathe, too quickly and too deeply, and at last he sinks to his knees, unable to hold himself up any longer. It makes sense, that he cannot grieve properly. He does not understand.

He does understand, really, but if he understood that would make it real, and it cannot be real.

The sky is lighter still, a pale, sombre grey, when he hears the footsteps echoing. They are close by, and he brings himself out of his panicked state for long enough to decide that there can be no harm in finding out who they are made by. It does not matter if it is one who would kill him.

There is no one left for him to live for now. No one will care if he dies. He won’t care, either.

But he did not expect a stranger. He did not expect a stranger taking away the body of one of his friends, his tribe-brothers.

He did not expect to follow them.

The sky is lighter now, but it is not yet dawn.


End file.
